For the Love of Bruce
by xXKanpekiXx
Summary: The inevitable return of Bruce Wayne inspires something more than hope in ex-detective John Blake. Bruce/John.


HELLO FRIENDSHIP!

**Standard disclaimers, yadda yadda. Shit's about to get really dirty, so be prepared for sex. **

****So this is my first time posting for Batman, in any universe. The last movie inspired a frighteningly intense obsession with Batman, meaning I now spend most of my money on comic books and movies. I also beg my wonderful artist friend to draw pictures for me. And I (of course) write filthy fanfictions. Can't remember how I thought of this story line. It was originally much different, and when I finished it, I absolutely fucking hated it. So, I did a major remodel and here it is. So forgive me for it being a bit choppy or unrealistic. I had a hard time with this story.

Enough of my pity party. Please enjoy.

* * *

For John Blake, becoming Batman was like taking a running dive into a frozen pool. It felt as if the bomb's detonation wiped out the crime in Gotham. The young detective's naivety was simply a casualty. He left the department because he realized that the majority of his cohorts were _not _Gotham's finest. But, as disheartened as he was with the GCPD, John left rounding up the loose criminals to the boys in blue. Stunned in the shadow of Batman's sacrifice, moral loafing was no longer an option for the figureheads of Gotham. Like a forest after a cleansing fire, the sprouts of normalcy began to surface. To the new Batman, the sounds of dying crime were like white noise, and the streets, stained with the failure of injustice, were quiet. Albeit momentarily.

The stone which raised one tormented orphan now housed many happy ones. John watched the boys he felt here his brothers, were him a few years ago, race into the former Wayne mansion. He almost didn't notice Bruce's former caretaker approach. But his presence was reassuring; despite biology, the man was a father. John acknowledged him first.

"Staying on to help the boys, Alfred?" He asked, smirking warmly as the elder man settled on his left.

"I seem to have a weakness for orphans, Detective Blake." Alfred mirrored the younger man's smile, loose skin pulling up. He was the kind of man you couldn't quite picture without his wrinkles.

"No 'detective.' I'm done with the GCPD, no matter how much Gordon tries to sweet talk the badge back into my hands."

"Ah, he did mention losing a promising detective to the war." Alfred responded. John shoved his hands in his pockets, as if to hide them.

"They're calling it a war, now?" John asked, flipping his head up to make eye contact.

"Wasn't it?" They stood quietly for a moment. John was unable to formulate a response. But Alfred, perfectly comfortable, chuckled. "Why don't we take your interview inside? There's a nasty chill in the air."  
"Interview?"  
"As caretaker for the boys. Master Bruce hinted you'd frequent the grounds in his absence, so why not get paid to do it? I gather you find yourself unemployed at the moment." Alfred smirked through his crafty altruism. John accepted the help, walking in tandem with the kindly old man up to the house.

"I thought the Wayne Estate was nearing bankruptcy. How are you going to pay my salary?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself. You don't have the job just yet. I need to see some credentials." At this, John gaped, confounded by the old man's joke. "Don't worry, Mr. Blake. Even if you don't get the position, I'll make you a nice cup of cocoa." It seemed a fair exchange.

From behind, their silhouettes painted a picture from younger days. Two men, carrying burdens beyond their years, walking back to the manor.

John wasn't allowed in Bruce's room. Well, it was never explicitly forbidden, but John couldn't bring himself to open that particular Pandora's Box. He preferred to heave Bruce as he was, an idea, a symbol. Perfect and necessary. Alfred situated him in the east wing, revealing to him the secrets of Wayne manor. At least, he didn't need to klunk around the cave in spelunking equipment.

Understanding very well that restriction begets curiosity and rebellion, the caretaking staff didn't forbid the boys from entering the east wing. They simply made the rest of the mansion more interesting. Filled with bunk beds, theme rooms, toys, games, and the like, the west wing in particular made the vast bookcases and classical styling in the east look stuffy. Stuffy, but well maintained.

It was very clear, the hurt in Alfred's eyes when he passed the final suite in the east wing. This sadness transcended grief and settled in remorse. John saw the most hesitancy before he finished his rounds in that room, but noticed he spent the most time behind those locked doors.

The seasoned caretaker, the rock of the house sturdier than the stone it was made of, seemed to be crumbling. Slowly, quietly. In private.

That was why John was happy when Alfred decided to take his annual holiday to France. It followed that John was ecstatic when Alfred returned, seemingly in better spirits than he ever had been. And for a few weeks, all was normal. Until John's doubts settled like black stains in the corners of his mind. The ease with which Alfred paced the manor and the abrupt end of his daily cemetery visits exceeded the limits of simple acceptance. For about 2 hours, John entertained the suspicion that the jolly Brit was abducted during his vacation and replaced with an imposter. But all inquiries died after tasting that night's dessert, the kind of mouthwatering apple pie only the true Alfred Pennyworth was capable of making.

The more he observed, the more the stains spread, a thick, pungent black, the kind of dark that was obsessively so. Until a passing fancy made every bit of poisonous doubt recede.

"Bruce Wayne is alive."

In the moment, it was a certainty, and the truth of the statement rooted itself in John's subconscious. However, his neo-mammalian anchoring demanded evidence to the conclusion he already whole heartedly believed in.

This, of course, would be difficult. Bruce, or in this aspect, Batman, had the wile and the resources to erase his existence. Bruce was intelligent. Frustratingly so, considering there seemed to be no traces of his continued life. And as stubbornly brilliant as Bruce was, Alfred proved to be equally loyal, so asking him would be self-defeating. Itching, but unable to quell his curiosities, John's focus shifted. Or, it tried to.

Much to John's dismay, caring for his little brothers was not a full time job. With the entire staff of his former home able to fit comfortably in the spacious manor, the children were more than adequately cared for. John was more of a presence, an example. Which was ironic, seeing as he felt like a leech. Jarred out of his job crisis by guilt, he started looking in the classifieds. But he noticed that after Alfred did his rounds, those newspapers disappeared.

So the ex-detective threw himself into spending time with the boys, trying desperately to be a good influence. However, he had too much free time. Like his predecessor, spare time was poison. So, he spent his time exploring in the Bat Cave.

Being in the Bat Cave, sitting at the computer, John felt as if he were a boy playing in his father's workshop. The though perished, Bruce being more of a demi-God than a father figure. The cave was a relic and every day was a battle between disturbing the Bat's memory and taking up his mantle. The latter won out, due to the fact that it was Bruce's will.

All the toys took a little getting used to, but his ingenuity helped. Eventually, maybe two weeks later, his obsessive tinkering led to a discovery. He found the Bat Computer. It was a kind of bitter awe, navigating around a computer with seemingly infinite search capabilities. The ease with which the machine could compile information from even the most secretive of government agencies made the former arbiter of the law uncomfortable.

At first, he checked prison logs, and searched for names of famed criminals. He was surprised to find links to live surveillance of their cells. As it turned out, the software for sonar-mapping through cell phones was destroyed, but the basic capability to access electronic devices remained. Through this, John was able to remotely tap video from nearly all cameras in the world. So, for a while, John played around, calling in anonymous tips as to the location of fugitives he tracked down.

Nobility gave way to selfish wonder, and John's burning to find the Bat returned. Knowing full well, straight inquiry would lead nowhere, he decided to look back, as any good detective would. Despite expectations of a self-erasing history, Bruce's searches remained. In retrospect, eliminating past resources was disadvantageous in the safety of the Cave. John scrolled diligently through files on the nuclear project which both absorbed Bruce's fortune and, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, Batman's life. Rifling through Bruce's computer history was the most bizarre way to relive the liberation of Gotham. It wasn't until he reached the Selina Kyle research that the first clue to Bruce's whereabouts surfaced.

Unaware of her feline persona, John flagged Selina Kyle, disturbed by her presence in the uncovered history. He examined her empty profile carefully, totally perplexed as to why Bruce would bother himself with an innocent woman during a crisis. Even more confusing was the lack of information. By all means, Selina Kyle wasn't at all extraordinary. But when John tried to track her down (old habits die hard, after all), he couldn't find one trace of her existence. At that moment, Gotham's up-and-coming hothead was unsure if Selina was the outlier or if she and Bruce formed a pattern.

No further breakthroughs were made until John finally returned to the precinct. He'd been putting off cleaning out his locker and picking up his boxed belongings. There were too many psychological barriers. On a higher level, he left like he was burning a bridge to the dreams he held his entire life. Going beyond that, it felt uncomfortable to erase himself from one place and move into another; it was a process that poisoned his childhood and reminded him how very alone he was. But returning to the boys' home eased the pain. And essentially, John was committing to moving forward.

While heading to the door, his ex-partner ambushed him. The former detective grimaced, unhappy to confront the one light of hope left, the kind of good man he was abandoning. Though not a lengthy farewell, the two shared a brief hug and a surprisingly emotional exchange. During the goodbye, John overheard and extremely interesting conversation.

"A facial recognition program?"

"Yeah, a better one than we have now. The database is much larger, worldwide. But we can't fucking use it!"

"What? Why the hell not?"

"The station's computers can't handle that program."

Releasing his ex-partner, John sent him away and moved to the house, finding his new lead with a sort of low level echolocation.

"What's this program called?"

Per his suspicion, the computer in the Bat Cave was not only capable of running the latest comprehensive facial recognition technology, but had been programmed to search and install similar updates. Unfortunately for Catwoman, the Blank Slate worked for criminal records, not photographs. So, John fed her pretty face into the computer and returned to hang with the boys while the analogs did their good work.

Upon sinking back to the Cave the next evening, the do-gooder was pleasantly surprised to find his search for Selina Kyle was finished. He was even more ecstatic to see that there were results. It appeared that she'd been caught on surveillance tapes in a small Parisian town. For a moment, completing his search held a sort of empty reward. That is, until he saw a familiar shadow by her side. A thick knot tightened in John's stomach, just before he desperately grasped for the keyboard. He closed in on the dark figure beside Selina, but was unable to pull anything useful.

Frantically, he pawed at the computer, trying to open the mobile connection database to synch searches. Finally, he was able to get a live feed to a small café. Selina sat across from a very imposing familiar.

"Bruce…"

Tracking down the impossible was a validation of faith. John was determined not to make contact with his query; after all, Batman deserved a rest. However, John was compelled to keep a tight watch on Bruce. Out of concern, insecurity, duty, and in a more childish part of him, admiration.

It was a relief to see the living legend be just that: living. And beyond that, it was really something to see him smile.

John felt for a moment as if his angry orphan companion left him too.

So, he watched, silently, wondering if the hatred and the anger inside of him could ever go away.

"He got shot 3 times and kept moving. It's true! He showed me the scars."

"I heard he helped Batman and they're best friends."

"He was the youngest detective in the history of the world!"

Some of the excitement-prone boys indulged in myth-making about their kindly older brother. Although John could see respect shining in his charges' eyes, he attributed it to his efforts to save them on the bridge. Little did he know, he'd evolved into something of a hero in the minds of those he'd saved, and their fantastic stories reflected that.

"He has a HUGE gun collection!"

"He actually owns Wayne Manor and just lets us live here."

"He's going to be the next Batman!"

The fantasies became more and more ridiculous, and in some cases, more and more true. They exchanged tales in the darkness, minds whirring when they should have been sleeping. Bedtime became story time. Their admiration grew in the whispers and rumors filling Wayne mansion.

It was uncomfortable at first. Watching Bruce. A guilty pleasure that eased and riled him. Eventually, it became part of a routine. Beyond that, it became his favorite part of his routine. As powerful and controlled as he may have been in his Batman armor, Bruce had an unbridled grace without the mask. John thought it was because his regular face was no longer a cover. John envied him that.

Yet again, Bruce Wayne became his widow, a new goal, a new model. He wanted, so badly. Wanted all Bruce had. All that Bruce was. Even in the Bat Cave, surrounded by his masterpiece, it became clear the place was hollow without that daunting presence.

Sometimes, John would watch Bruce from afar and fantasize about having him around. Working together to stay 5 steps ahead of the criminals, making Gotham safe for everyone. Caring for the boys in the house, saving them from a fate of eternal anguish and hatred. Not that he wished for Bruce to fall back into the pit he just escaped. But he didn't want to be alone again. He wanted Bruce.

John didn't realize how deeply those desires rooted until he managed to connect to a mobile device Selina Kyle purchased. She'd mistakenly believed that the thorough Blank Slate program made her untraceable. Usually, that field didn't provide any useful shots, but one night, John watched as Selina ambushed Bruce with the camera coming out of the shower.

Completely naked.

Truthfully, Bruce always factored heavily in John's masturbatory fantasies. Bruce was the person he watched in his mind, deflowering women. All different manner of women cycled through his dreams, brunettes, redheads, blondes, but Bruce's presence never wavered.

Weathered as he may have been, the ex-vigilante's body was solid as ever. Thick, well-used muscles expanded and contracted in an almost musical fashion, moving in ways that were subtle and sensual. His torso, littered with scars, was the rustic dream of an adventurous woman. And apparently, John. At the very sight of the majestic frame on the screen, John's blood pulsed. He could feel it, hear it rushing by his ears, and felt a familiar ache below. His member filled, straining against his pressed slacks. He could feel it, a weight pulling him down to capture Bruce's rapidly expanding cock. Standing thick and full, his large member proved that there was absolutely nothing about Bruce Wayne that wasn't impressive.

John gasped, the fire in his stomach flaring. He absentmindedly began to rub his crotch, sliding the stiff fabric over his engorged penis with a delicious, yet somehow lacking, friction. At this point, Selina dropped the camera, focusing on more pressing matters, and the video feed clattered to a plain view of their hotel's ceiling.

John reached his hand to the mouse, hesitating slightly. He knew if he took this step, there was no going back. Irreversibly admitting to himself something he'd always known, but never wanted to acknowledge. He couldn't pretend Bruce was an incidental part of his fantasies, couldn't deny he was the focus. John made his choice, rewinding the feed back to Bruce, standing proudly amongst the shadows. He was exactly what John imagined he would be; overwhelming.

His black hair melted into the shadows, the darkness contouring his abdominal muscles in a harsh ownership. Those shoulders, impossibly broad, coiled in silent strength. Quite simply, he put Adonis to shame.

Burning with an unprecedented arousal, even touching his erection sent waves of warm electricity surging through his veins. He groaned, gently rubbing up and down, savoring the heightened sensitivity.

"Oh God, Bruce." Pre-cum seeped from his tip. John moved faster, stroking his length with feverish need. Panning down, Bruce's cock presented itself, smooth and not, even through the screen.

"Aaaaaah..." John moaned, bringing his left hand forward to brace himself on the desk. He rubbed harder. And faster. More.

"Oh, fuck, Bruce!" He cried, spilling himself on the counter. Mind-blowing pleasure radiated throughout his body, sending tremors in the blissful aftershock of his orgasm. He milked himself, pulling every bit of lust and desire from within, feeling weak and shaky when he was done. John panted, thoroughly exhausted, and dipped his fingers in his seed. Seeing clearly the evidence of his transgression, mind free from the veil of carnal desire, John stopped. He felt the hot clench of shame in his gut. The frantic man quickly cleaned his mess and shut off the video feed. Guilted further, he erased his history and shut down the Bat Computer. During his return to the manor, the soiled man considered locking himself out of the Cave. But the possibility of being Batman, the fear of failing Bruce again, erased that thought. The white hot shame would be enough of a deterrent. From that day on, he never once looked for Bruce again.

Feeling particularly unclean, John regressed wanting to regain his childlike innocence. He spent more time with his adoptive younger brothers, namely, a quiet youth named Manuel. He was a nice boy, stymied by social ineptitude and blossoming homosexuality. It drove a painfully noticeable rift between him and the other at-risk youth in the house, which pushed him to retreat into John's gentle company. A relationship for which he was mocked further, out of jealousy and, more importantly, spite. Though John could feel the tensions, his adulthood spared him from seeing the worst of it. But it was enough for him to consciously decide to take Manuel under his wing. One day, while showing the boy how he styled his hair, Manuel made a discovery.

"John, you have gray hairs!" He gasped, tugging at the offending locks.

"Ow!" The older man yelped, throwing up a hand to shield his head. "I do not. I'm only 26." He insisted. But upon looking in the mirror, he found the assertion to be true. The patch was small, really only a streak of 4 or 5 hairs, but their brazen silver spoke volumes. Of age. Of stress. Of change.

Taking his eye off the Bat-Computer created a blind spot John could hardly have expected. Life in the Wayne House for Boys continued thanks to guilt and heavy repression, with a largely unremarkable month passing very quickly. But time came to a screeching halt the night John returned the Cave for the second time. Small crime reared its ugly head from the sewer, and the rats scuttled around, looking to take advantage of the recovering city. John wanted to nip the reprisal in the bud, but knew he had to be extremely careful in the way he presented the succession of Batman. Although not realistic, the newly anointed wanted to fool the public into thinking Batman lived on. As though nothing had changed. Because Gotham would always need Batman and he needed to be there.

It seemed the Bat Computer had an override system programmed to flip on and show an alert when crime was reported. His first call to action was a small two-man robbery-turned-hostage situation. John stepped into the armor, feeling more like a child in baggy foot pajamas than Gotham's silent guardian. The gear was close enough to fitting that it wouldn't impede function, but clearly Bruce's body filled the gauntlet in ways John's just couldn't. The armor turned out to be a double-edged sword; a guard and a constant reminder of his inferiority.

Batman 2.0's maiden voyage was a shaky success to say the least. Not that the returning hero could describe what had happened, the night devolving into a messy blur. From the rubble, he was certain, however, that the hostage was safe, the burglars in police custody, and his body (for the most part) intact. Whole, but undeniably injured. As the wounded picked at the bullet hole in his leg, hissing, the darkness spoke.

"Looks painful." A thick, rich baritone that vibrated across the jagged walls of the cave, surrounding John. Almost to the point where he could _feel_ the voice.

"Occupational hazard." He responded, hoping in vain that making light of his pain would diminish it.

"Luckily for you, the very best tools for survival are within arm's reach." The voice quieted, and the space chilled. From his left, John could see a flashing red light and moments later, Alfred trundled down to inspect patrol's damage. The largest wound was tended to first, with the kindly Brit admonishing him gently for his recklessness. Guilt tripping worked for a while, until he started patching up the shallower cuts, and John realized he wasn't the one being chastised. Once the battered young man was sufficiently bandaged, Alfred straightened up, informing the vaguely present Master Wayne that he was still faithfully at his beck and call. Bruce emerged from the darkness, shedding the shadows as though disrobing. Pale blue flashed fire, courting an impossibly comfortable anger, one John unnecessarily worried would be lost. A hardened face sat with a solemn smile etched into the skin-colored stone. The mask hid his discomfort.

Those who knew his secret, the select few he allowed himself to depend on, were the type who had all the answers. Molded by years of trial and disappointment, Fox and Alfred had always seen the somber truth of Batman, knowing not to stop him, only to soften the eventual blow. But now, Bruce was confronted with a new face, a young one. A person he met during the time in his life where trust was a hollow promise. Except there was something so _like him _in those sweet brown eyes. Bruce wasn't sure why or what to do with him, only that John should be held close by. But observing the overwhelming confusion swirling in front of his young charge's face, the older man wondered why he couldn't just keep him as a souvenir in the Cave. Silent, but present. If only…

_Selina…_

It was a damn shame that only one of them managed a blank slate. Speaking of…

Attention returning to his impromptu protégé, the imposing man studied the smaller form. Steel blue eyes roamed across toned, supple muscles. And though Bruce was simply appraising him, the gaze antagonized the already sputtering John.

"Gape or question. Choose one." Bruce instructed sternly.

"Y-you're alive?" John managed, stare never wavering. It was something John already knew, but had to ask. That and seeing Bruce again was absolutely moving.

"Apparently," Bruce retorted.

"How?"

"Secret of the Cowl." There was silence for a moment, the chirp and flap of the bats was already white noise for the pair.

"You came back. Why?" John asked, searching his new mentor's face for answers solely out of habit. He knew Bruce's expression would give nothing away. So he was surprised when the taller man's face darkened. His voice was even, but there was something undeniably hurt in his tone.

"A good friend once warned me that I'd always need Batman." In the corner of the younger man's mind, an honest thought refused to be subdued.

_"You're not the only one."_

Bruce's presence was kept a secret from the boys. For their sake as much as his. But the vibrant air of the manor, lighter than it had been since the days of Bruce's youth, did not escape the recluse. Yet again confined to the east wing, he allowed himself the sole company of John "Robin" Blake. Alfred hadn't yet gotten over Bruce's return, trusting himself only to provide invisible care. The young man regaled Bruce with the goings-on of the house, satisfying his guilt over his idol's solitude. That and John found himself predictably selfish about spending time with the living legend.

The secret master of the house heard John's stories, complains, frustrations, and triumphs, getting a feel for the group vicariously. He noticed nuances in the atmosphere, picking up on things like the blossoming mentorship between John and Manuel. What's worse, Bruce noticed the mounting tension between John's new friend and the rest of the inhabitants of the Wayne home for boys. While Manuel breached the subject of his harassment, John dealt with it in that endearingly naïve way: telling him to stand up for himself. Non-violent bravery. Beautiful on paper, even better said. Hardly ever successful. Although it had never been an issue for him, Bruce knew the cruelty of peers, and the result of meek resistance. He allowed himself to hope that things would resolve themselves for the better, for the sake of John much more than the boy. Manuel oozed admiration, almost the way John himself did, and it might kill John to lose that. Which was why it was no surprise that the oblivious young man came to Bruce distraught when he discovered Manuel's problem. However, Bruce didn't expect he would be roused in the middle of the night for it.

"John, this is highly irregular, even for me." Bruce groaned, sitting up in his gargantuan bed, silk blue sheets pooling like water at the bottom of his naked torso. John remained silent, face obstructed by the darkness Bruce adopted.

"Manuel tried to kill himself." John whispered, still obstructed in the night.

"What?! What happened?" Bruce asked, now more alert.

"He tried to kill himself because of me."

"John, tell me what happened." The older man demanded, standing up and staring at the distressed young man.

"He did what I said to do, tried standing up for himself. It didn't work. And all the boys…they wouldn't leave him alone. Oh god, he tried _killing himself_." John managed to hold back a sob. Bruce stood silently, unsure of what to do with this rush of unfamiliar emotion. He often felt unprepared when dealing with anything aside from anger. But he was able to stumble though a shaky diffusion, calming the younger man enough to have him sit on the bed.

In a fit of exhaustion, both physical and mental, John collapsed into Bruce's shoulder, which didn't feel as much like a brick wall than was expected. Somehow, although he was distraught, the comfort he'd imagined for months soothed him. Reminded him to savor what he could in the moment. John inhaled, trying desperately to smell the earthy hint of skin beneath Bruce's expensive cologne. The older man, aching for some sort of intimacy, frustrated that the instinct hadn't reached extinction, ran his strong fingers through his companion's soft brown hair. In the process, Bruce wrapped a muscular arm around the smaller man and John's head moved its way toward the broad, bare chest next to him. He relished the feeling of rubbing his cheek over the heated skin, recognizing the different textures caused by Bruce's scars. The older man couldn't suppress a shiver, seduced by the skin-on-skin sensations he'd been deprived of.

Not entirely certain why he was allowing, even furthering the mood, Bruce set his nimble fingers to massaging John's back. The recipient groaned, his hot breath feathering gently over the crook of the exposed neck. Bruce inhaled deeply, leaning down to share a look with his charge.

Speaking through silence, a need was established, hot, visceral, and above all, intimate. Their lips met, tentative and tender at first, coupled with ginger touching and sweet caresses. But their undeniable spark escalated their passion tenfold, a blistering heat passing with each feverish kiss.

Without warning, Bruce shoved John down on the bed, propping himself up with one arm on either side of the small brunette's head.

Their eyes sought each other out, Bruce looking possessive, John sensual. He turned his head, placing a soft kiss on Bruce's right wrist before snaking his hands up the thick cords of muscle. They came to rest on the sides of the larger man's face, firmly guiding their lips together.

As if stuck by fever, Bruce attacked, licking and nipping at his prey's neck. He left trails of bites along the delicate jaw, the side of his neck, the smooth skin of his upper back. The Bat bit down harder, not enough to draw blood, but strong enough to make John cry out. Those sensual sounds made watching shudders wrack John's body even more arousing.

Bruce decided that John's clothes were far too obstructing and tried to lift the smaller man's T-shirt up. John complied with his aggressor's wishes, sitting up enough for Bruce to rip the cloth skyward. He paused, knotting the shirt around John's wrists. Being held by Bruce Wayne of all people; being wanted, no, needed, renewed the waves of unimaginable pleasure shooting like brush fire through his veins. The ache in his lower extremities was the only reason he wished his hands were free. Not that he had much time to think, with Bruce attending to every one of his needs. He rubbed John's erection through the fabric of his shorts, devouring the sexy little moans that escaped from his lips.

Soon, the younger man was divested from the rest of his clothing, breathing increasing rapidly while the man above him drank in the sight of his nudity. Bruce ran calloused hands up and down John's lithe frame in appreciation. He nipped and bit his way down John's silky torso, noting that the further down he travelled, the louder the response. And secluded in the east wing, Bruce made it his personal mission to test the limits of John's screams.

Bruce gave John's member a couple of strokes before taking him fully into his mouth. Shouts of desperation and lust sounded from above and the younger man's tied hands pulled forward to push Bruce's head down. His toes curled and his hips jolted forward. Strong hands held him down, a tick hum sending light vibrations across his sensitive skin. Bruce pulled up, lapping delicately at John's crown, covering every inch with his tongue.

"Ah, oh god, Bruce!" John moaned, barely able to form words as he nearly melted from pleasure.

"Say my name again." The older man growled, just before engulfing John's length once more.

"Fuck! Fuck! Bruuuuuuuce!" He nearly screamed, throwing his head back, overwhelmed by the white hot sensation stimulation his cock. Without warning, the familiar, yet multiplied, feeling that he would tip over any moment coiled in his stomach.

"Wait, stop! I'm going to…" The attention came to a bittersweet halt, and he couldn't do anything but gasp in the wake of his mind blowing treatment. Bruce stopped, thunderstruck by the man panting beneath him, twitching with the kind of lust he'd only fantasized of. He was, again, unsure of how to proceed, wanting more, but not wanting to hurt John. Not wanting to get hurt himself. He knew they were too far into stop, but on the verge of something dangerous.

Sensing hesitation, John took the opportunity to free himself from his bonds, leaning in to rest against the larger man's toned body. He guided Bruce's hand to his entrance, begging him to continue.

"Please, Bruce. I want it. Need it." A hint of distress in his voice was all it took for the taller man to press on, into the younger man's willing form. They made love, gently and thoroughly. Then, they fucked. Ruled by animal need, they rock into each other, all of Bruce's demanding thrusts met by John's limber hips. They erupted, John first, in an uncontrollable fit of moans, curse words, and deafening screams. Bruce followed a few minutes later, and John languished in the feeling of Bruce filling him, pushing inside, twitching, and releasing in the deepest parts of him.

They laid together, sweaty and downright exhausted, once again in meaningful quiet.

"I heart a criminal calling herself 'Poison Ivy' stole chemicals from a Pheromone Research Facility and has been spritzing her way through a crime spree." John said, clicking away on the Bat Computer. Bruce toweled off his damp hair while examining a new shipment of explosive batarangs.

"Looks like a job for Batman, if there ever was one." The brunet said lightly, spinning his chair to face his mentor. Bruce smiled in returned, the way he liked to do when a plan was taking shape in his head.

"I have a few hang ups about airborne drugs. It wouldn't be prudent to go alone." He responded pointedly, causing a determined grin to erupt on John's face.

"Do I make my own crime fighting persona?"

"If you must."

"Oh! What about 'Robin?' You know, my name, but also, Robin Hood."

"How old are you, Blake? I was thinking…Nightwing."

* * *

Yes, I'm in the Nightwing camp. Best ass in DC. Hope you liked it.


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